To Another Time, To Another Place
by I. G. Scorsone
Summary: What if, when walking on the streets of Paris, Neal ran into Sara?


**A/N: 1. Please excuse all future failures regarding paintings. All knowlege put in this fanfic is purely Wikipedia based and nothing more.**

 **2\. I do not own these charcters,** **obviously.**

 **3.** ** _Enjoy!_**

* * *

The streets of Paris were welcomingly warm, despite them being slightly different than what he remembered.

Neal guessed seventeen years of not seeing a city could make that happen to you.

Regardless, he walked on, the picaresque sights so often seen in paintings across the world.

He could almost imagine a Caillebotte fitting right into the corner, all down to the smallest detail, to the people walking.

It was those kind of thoughts that preoccupied his mind as he walked into a cafe. He didn't hesitate before sitting down, ordering a Latte in his rusty French.

Seeing that was dealt with, Neal found there was very little for him to do.

His eyes slipped across the glass and towards the outside world and suddenly, he wondered if he could paint that.

He studied the structure of the buildings, the people walking on the street, either in hurried steps or lazy walks. He could sort of imagine it, this painting that was slowly forming in his mind.

He cleared his head, remembering that he had no paper anyway. He had never painted something of his own, and he highly doubted that would change now.

So he focused his attention elsewhere, his eyes traveling from table to table.

It was in that moment that the bell rang, signaling a new client.

His eyes flashed to the door in an involuntary movement and for a moment, his heart ceased its beating altogether.

Neal attempted to pull away, not yet ready to face her after all this time, but his reflexes were ironically too slow. He had lost his training.

In a matter of seconds, her dirty green eyes locked onto his and he could no longer avoid whatever was going to happen.

So he got up.

He wasn't sure if she had changed completely or not at all. Her hair was still in perfect curls, her face has still the same shape and _yet_...

He found himself swallow, a nervousness he hadn't felt too often overcoming him. Even his voice was rough as he spoke, sounding nothing like him.

"Sara."

The name slipped out of his mouth like a sweet, long forgotten song. Only that one sound could increase his heartbeat.

"Neal." She breathed, in her familiar voice.

They went in for a hug, awkward as it was. Neal still managed to catch a scent of her, underneath the fancy perfume.

That scent which he could not quite describe, which was Sara's and hers alone.

"You look well." He said, a pathetic attempt at conversation.

She laughed, the sound echoing hollowly.

 _To another time, to another place, to another us._

Neal couldn't help but remember those words, questioning their truth now.

"What brings you to Paris?" Sara asked him, as they both sat down at the table. The Latte that had arrived for him was long forgotten.

"You don't want to know." He answered, smiling.

"I think that I do." She replied, a smirk playing on her beautiful face.

So he told her, out of some foolish idiocy that would most probably not end well, or simply because she had asked, because he wanted to have no more secrets.

When his story was finished, Sara's mouth was hanging slightly open.

"You're kidding." She said, although it was obvious she knew the truth.

She always did.

"I'm not."

There was silence for a moment after that, packed with Sara's curls bouncing ever so lightly as she shook her head in disbelief, with her eyes glittering with intrigue and with her lips just slightly turned upright into a smile.

"Why am I even surprised?" She asked, more to herself than to Neal.

He only smiled at Sara, memorizing every part of her that he might have forgotten over time. "So, what brings you here?" He asked.

She laughed, genuinely this time. The sound warmed him. "Nothing quite as spectacular as a dead man's story."

"Tell me." He said, meaning those words to be confident but coming out as an almost beg in the end. He wanted to know her new life, he wanted to reassure himself that he had done the better thing by letting her go, by not trying to tie her to him.

It seemed an impossible task.

Her life sounded perfect and she seemed as happy as anyone could be, exactly as he had hoped she would.

Still, he couldn't help the millions of emotions rushing back at once.

He forced laughs at key times, and threw genuine smiles whenever she talked about the paintings, but nothing could stop the growing hollowness within him.

He wondered if a last time, if a last night would help it or make it worse. He wondered if she was wondering this too.

"So how long will you be here?" He finally asked her, and their eyes met.

The urge to touch her, to feel her fingers in his hand, or her back pressed against his palm became almost unbearable.

"A few more days." She answered, a hint of sadness in her voice.

A few more days.

* * *

They ended up at his hotel room in the late hours of the night, undressing each other before they had even gotten in the room.

The alcohol was swimming around in his mind, but it was not enough for him not to feel every place they touched.

His fingers danged along her side, finally griping one of her legs, pushing her against the wall.

He managed to close the door behind him just as her hand was reaching for his torso, going lower before stopping and pulling him closer.

He was carving her touch more and more with every new contact, needing her relentlessly.

In the dead of the night, when he could hardly make out her shape, he knew she felt the same.

* * *

He was the first to wake up in the morning, as soon as morning light broke through.

He thought about room service, but as he tried to get up, he found himself glued to the mattress, his eyes on her sleeping face.

He couldn't look away, trying to remember every detail for her.

He might as well draw her, he figured, a strange surge of excitement running through him.

He got up then, ready to capture her on paper.

Instead, his first move was rigid.

Both frustrated and annoyed, he tried again. The new line crossed the previous one in an almost perfect x.

On the bed, Sara twitched.

The other lines went with increasing ease, one softer, better than the other.

By the time her eyelids were fluttering open, Neal was almost done.

She patted his side of the bed, and when she found nothing, she opened her eyes.

"What are you doing?" She asked softly, lazily closing her eyes again.

Neal smirked.

"Drawing you."

That prompted her to open her eyes completely. Not bothering to put anything but his shirt on, she walked towards him. Leaning against him, Sara placed her chin on his shoulder.

Neal could feel her smile.

"This is beautiful." She breathed.

Pride surged through him, as if his sketch had just been deemed a work of art.

* * *

"I believe this hat quite suits you." Neal laughed, his hat having been placed on Sara's red curls.

"Why, thank you very much." She answered, her hand gripping his tighter.

He could not help the soft smile that spread across his lips.

"Let's go in there." She said, pulling him into a smallish cafe.

Neal didn't get the chance to argue. Before he knew it, he was in a dim lit place, with few people.

"I discovered this a few days ago. I figured you might like it."

He did, but not for the place itself. Instead, his eyes scanned the paintings on the walls, all copies, but extremely good ones too.

They were placed in chronological order, starting from early Renaissance and all through Monet's Impressionism.

He could not see the walls, but the place didn't feel heavily decorated either.

Whoever had done this, had a pretty good eye for design.

He felt Sara shift beside him, a smirk breaking on her face. "I knew you'd like it. I thought of you when I came in here the first time."

She frowned then, realizing her mistake too late.

"So you thought about me?" Neal turned his full attention to her.

He watched her cheeks flush lightly, a barely visible pink coloring them.

"I'm in a room of forgeries. It was a bit hard not to." She replied swiftly, leaving no room for hesitation.

"Theoretically, they're not forgeries if you don't declare them as the actual pieces."

"Theoretically?" Sara raised a brow.

The debate went on, through their coffee and all the way down Champs Elysees. By the time they reached the Eiffel Tower, they had been fiercely debating Rembrandt for over ten minutes.

"How can you not like him?" Sara asked, to which Neal shrugged.

"I did not say that. But calling him a master of shadows is a bit exaggerated."

"Do you know anyone better?"

"Johannes Vermeer."

Sara scruffed. "Not even close."

"The Concert is more overdoes any Rembrandt."

"I do not agree." Sara finished, turning to look at Neal.

He only smiled at her, the corner of his eyes catching the Tower behind her.

The sight was enough to get his heart racing.

"Do you want to go up?" He asked her.

For a moment, Sara said nothing. Then, she nodded.

"Does it also remind you of Empire State?"

The wind was blowing lightly, which was surprising for this height. But it was enough to send her hair in fire-like waves.

Neal nodded. "It does." He answered. And it did, it truly did. He could recall every word spoken between them, every touch exchanged and every kiss returned.

They were silent for a moment, in which Neal took the chance to take her in his arms. Sara leaned against his chest, her hands wrapping around his arms.

"To another time." He heard her whispered.

"To another place." He said in her ear.

He wondered if this was it, if he could be happy.

If he could be with her.

* * *

"Those last few days..." Neal started, wishing she didn't have to go. Wishing she could stay.

"Have been like Palazzo Sasso?" Sara finished his sentence.

He nodded, dreading the fact that in a few moments he had to let go of her.

Unless he didn't have to.

"I have to go, Neal." Sara said, sorrow in her voice.

He took a deep breath.

"What if I came with you?" He asked then.

Sara's first reaction was laughter, her mask for surprise. "That's..."

She didn't finish the sentence.

"Do you want me to?"

She laughed again, but she nodded.

Heart in his throat, he managed to continue. "Give me a minute."

She did, more than a moment.

This was crazy.

This was insane.

This was what he wanted. Was this what _she_ wanted?

He reached the ticket box in a rush, ignoring the stares of passer-bys.

"A ticket to the flight to London. Leaving now."

The woman at the desk looked confusingly at him, moment in which Neal chose to smile.

"I'm kind of in a hurry." He added, his smile never leaving his lips.

"Sir, I don't believe there are any more seats -" She stoped midsetence, before readjusting her glasses.

She was surprised, Neal observed.

"One ticket it is." She finally said. "I will need your passport, sir."

* * *

"I can't believe we're doing it." Sara laughed, leaning on him. Neal wrapped an arm around her shoulders.

"I can't either."

He said, before stealing a kiss.


End file.
